By Joel Chandler Harris
One night when the little boy was waiting patiently for Uncle Remus to tell him a story, the guineas began to scream at a great rate, and they kept it up for some time.
“Ah, Lord!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, blowing the ashes from a sweet potato that had been roasting in the embers. “Ah, Lord! dem ar creeturs is mighty kuse creeturs. I boun’ you ef you go up dar whar dey is right now, you’ll fin’ some kind er varmint slippin’ ’roun’ und’ de bushes. Hit mout be ole Brer Fox. I won’t say p’intedly dat it’s Brer Fox,” the old man continued, with the air of one who is willing to assert only what he can prove, “yit it mout be. But ne’er min’ ’bout dat; Brer Fox er no Brer Fox, dem guinea hens ain’t gwine ter be kotch. De varments kin creep up en slip up ez de case may be, but dey ain’t gwine to slip up en ketch dem creeturs asleep.”
“Don’t the guineas ever sleep, Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired. His curiosity was whetted.
“Oh, I ’speck dey does sleep,” replied the old man. “Yasser, dey er bleege ter sleep, but dey ain’t bin kotch at it—leastways, dey aint bin kotch at it not sence Brer Fox crope up on um long time ago. He kotch um a-snorin’ den, but he ain’t kotch um sence, en he ain’t gwine kotch um no mo’.
“You may go ter bed now,” Uncle Remus went on, in a tone calculated to carry conviction with it, “you may go ter bed en go ter sleep right now, but wake up w’enst you will en you’ll year dem guineas a-cacklin’ en a confabbin’ out dar des same ez ef’t wuz broad daylight. Seem like dey ain’t gwine ter fergit de time w’en Brer Fox crope up on um, en kotch um ’sleep.”
“When was that, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, as he settled himself in the split-bottom chair in anticipation of a story.
“Well,” said the old man, noticing the movement, “you nee’n ter primp yo’se’f fer no great long tale, honey, kaze dish yer tale ain’t skacely long nuff fer ter tie a snapper on. Yit sech es ’t is you er mo’ dan welcome.
“One time ’way long back yander dem guineas wuz des ez drowsy w’en night come ez any er de yuther folks. Dey ’d go ter roos’, dey would, en dey ’d drap off ter sleep time der head totch de piller.”
“The pillow, Uncle Remus!” exclaimed the little boy.
“Well,” said the old man, rubbing his hand over his weatherbeaten face to hide a smile, “hit’s all de same. In dem days dey could ’a’ had pillers ef dey ’d a-wanted um, en bolsters, too, fer dat matter, en likewise fedder-beds, kaze dey wouldn’t ’a’ had ter go no fur ways fer de fedders.
“But ne’er mind ’bout dat; no sooner did dey git up on de roos’ dan dey drap off ter sleep, en dey kep’ on dat away twel bimeby one time Brer Fox made up he min’ dat he better be kinder sociable en pay um a call atter dey done gone ter bed.
“Dar wuz times,” continued Uncle Remus, as if endeavoring to be perfectly fair and square to all the parties concerned, “w’en Brer Fox tuck a notion fer ter walk ’bout in de daytime, but mos’ allers inginer’lly he done he pomernadin’ ’twix’ sundown en sun-up. I dunner w’at time er night hit wuz w’en Brer Fox call on de guineas, but I speck’t wuz long todes de shank er de evenin’, ez you may say.
“Yit, soon er late, w’en he got ter whar de guineas live at, he foun’ um all soun’ asleep. Now, some folks w’en dey go anywhars fer ter make deyse’f sociable, en fin’ eve’ybody fas’ asleep, would ’a’ tu’n ’roun’ en made der way back home; but Brer Fox ain’t dat kind er man. Dem guineas roos’ so low en dey look so fine en fat dat it make Brer Fox feel like dey wuz his fus’ cousin.
“He sot down on his hunkers, Brer Fox did, en he look at um en grin. Den he ’low ter hisse’f:
“‘I’ll des shake han’s wid one un um en den I’ll go.’
“Well,” continued Uncle Remus, “Brer Fox went up en shuck han’s wid one un um, en he must ’a’ squoze mighty hard, kaze de guinea make a mighty flutterment; en he mus’ ’a’ helt on wid a mighty tight grip, kaze w’en he tuck off his hat en bowed good-by de guinea went ’long wid ’im.
“Well, suh,” said the old man solemnly, “you never is year tell er sech a racket ez dem guineas kicked up w’en dey ’skiver dat Brer Fox done make off wid one un um. Dey squall en dey squall twel dey rousted up de whole neighborhoods. De dogs got ter barkin’, de owls got ter hootin’, de hosses got ter kickin’, de cows got ter lowin’, en de chickens got ter crowin’.
“En mo’ dan dat,” Uncle Remus continued, “de guineas wuz dat skeered dat dey tu’n right pale on de neck en on de gills, en ef you don’t b’lieve me you kin go up dar in de gyarden en look at um fer yo’se’f.”
But the little boy had no idea of going. He saw by Uncle Remus’s air of preoccupation that the story was not yet concluded.
“En mo’ dan dat,” said the old man, after a short pause, “dey got skeerd so bad dat from dat day ter dis dey don’t sleep soun’ at night. Dey may squat ’roun’ in de shade en nod in de daytime, dough I ain’t kotch um at it, en dey may sort er nod atter dey go ter roos’ at night; but ef a betsey bug flies by um, er yit ef a sparrer flutters in de bushes, dey er wide awake; dey mos’ sholy is.
“Hit seem like ter me,” Uncle Remus continued, “dat dey mus’ be ha’nted in der dreams by ole Brer Fox, kaze all times er night you kin year um gwine on:
“‘L-o-o-o-o-k, look, look! Dar he is, dar he is! Go ’way, go ’way!’
“Some folks say dat dey holler, ‘Pot-rack! pot-rack!’ but dem w’at talk dat away is mostly w’ite folks, en dey ain’t know nuthin’ ’t all ’bout dem ole times. Mars John en Miss Sally mout know, but ef dey does I ain’t year um sesso.”
